The Ace Up His Sleeve
by The Seventh Circle
Summary: Harley Quinn origin story from her POV. Harleen Quinzel, a young and somewhat naive psychiatrist, hopes to spark a grand career by working at Arkham Asylum. What she doesn't expect is the Clown Prince of Crime taking a special interest in her. Is it just an act? BTAS "Mad Love" inspired! Might be bumped to M.
1. Chapter 1

**Let me know what you think! :)**

The click of high heels echoed in the unnerving quiet of the darkened, empty halls. Intermittent walls of bullet-proof glass provided stripes of light, which oozed onto the floor. Two women, walking side-by-side in sterile lab coats conversed quietly together, heads turned away from the beasts that lurked and stared from behind the glass.

Yet these were no ordinary creatures. They were things of a peculiar kind—super criminals, as deadly as they were deranged. Their ostentatious costumes were replaced with dull, gray prison uniforms, although their flamboyant faces remained.

A man and monster with two different faces, a woman with piercing green eyes, and a walking scarecrow, thatched hat and all, were only a few of the ones the two doctors passed by. Boring eyes burned into the pair, but they kept their attention on one another. The younger woman on the right fired away questions, deliberately shifting her focus away from the never-blinking eyes.

Her counterpart seemed unfazed by the figures just a few feet from them, a testament to her seniority.

"They're going to eat a novice like you for breakfast," the doctor muttered after a pause of silence, noticing the increasing terror grow on her new ward's face.

"I'm sorry what?" the girl squeaked, eyes wide as she whisked her head back around, her concentration broken at last.

"Nothing, only teasing," Dr. Leland assured, though she wondered if her young assistant, Harleen, was up for the challenge of Arkham Asylum. "Are you sure you're ready for this leap, Dr. Quinzel? You seemed to have been doing just fine at St. Timothy's."

Immediately the blonde-haired attendant raised her chin in defiance, dropping her fear so suddenly that it made Leland raise a brow.

"Please, call me Harley," she smiled warmly, her tone confident. "Everyone does."

The middle-aged woman gave a tight nod.

To prove her worth, Harley took a step away from her new boss and went to survey a random cell.

"I have always been fascinated by these types of criminals," she said as she peered into a room where a man whistled and leaned against the wall.

 _He seems almost normal…_ she thought despite herself.

"Are you sure you're not trying to cash in on their secrets for a chance at the best-seller list?" Leland grumbled from behind.

Harley peered over her shoulder calmly, giving a smirk and a shrug.

"You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super criminals."

When she turned back to the casual man, he had teleported and was up against the glass, hands behind his back, and smiling grotesquely. He locked their gazes. Then, of all things, he gave a coy wink. Surprised, Harley took a step back, but did not scamper away like her gut told her to.

"Like I said," Leland sighed. "They'll eat a novice like you for breakfast."

The veteran doctor continued walking, and Harley briskly turned away from the odd, green-haired fellow to follow her. But the vivid image plagued her mind—that smile, those teeth, the wretched, pale skin…

… _and that wink…_

* * *

Two weeks passed and nothing got any easier.

At previous jobs there had been a learning curve, some sort of structured ladder to climb. That was not the case at Arkham. Emergencies were more routine than any regimen the docs could proscribe. Escapes happened quite often though the security was beyond strict, bordering on oppressive. At first, Harley disapproved, but by the end of day two, she welcomed the abuses of the guards whole-heartedly.

There had been the Two-Face incident, where she happened to be at the wrong place and time, and had ended up being used as a hostage in an escape which was unsuccessful, but she had plenty of bruises to prove it. Then there was Scarecrow who gassed her into unconsciousness, day 8, and the daily comments of Croc and Ventriloquist, who whistled when she walked past their cells.

It was hard, but her skin was toughening. When one inmate foamed at the mouth or hooted unintelligibly at her, she shrugged—another day at the office. They had given her a relatively easy first assignment, but it still had its difficulties.

Poison Ivy, or Pamela Isley, was under her supervision for the time being. Coming in, Harley knew that these people had seen it all. They had touched the dolls, spilled their guts (or lies) on the couches, and had been told over and over that their personas were delusions, their purposes a mirage.

Yet this was not her tactic. What had worked well at her older jobs was forming a relationship. She had to convince these people she was simply a friendly ear, available at any time. Then she would slowly introduce more complicated aspects, until the subject was comfortable exposing and contemplating.

So, when Poison Ivy sauntered in, glowering at the floor, Harley knew she was in for a quiet, awkward session.

The plant-obsessed woman plopped on the familiar leather chaise, her wild red locks framing her heart-shaped face as she continued to stare at the floor, arms crossed. Even without make-up, she was astonishing to look at. It appeared her criminal days had only enhanced her looks, given her a psychotic vibrancy.

Without meaning to, a pang of jealousy bubbled in the young doctor's chest.

An expected quiet ensued, Harley only waited. She could not be the aggressor here. Minutes passed until Poison Ivy finally lost it and snarled:

"What are you waiting for?"

Harley responded to her patient's feral glare with a calm, gentle smile.

"You, of course."

Perplexed, the tension in the criminal's shoulders eased by half an inch.

"What do you mean?"

Her smile only grew.

"I'm only here to offer help."

"What makes you think I need your help, darling?" Poison snapped back, coiled once again.

"You're right," Harley conceded with a smirk. "I suppose you don't. But _if_ you need it, I'm here for you."

Poison only snorted.

"Are we going to hug now? Or maybe you can tell me over and over that it's 'Not my fault," she jeered.

"'Good Will Hunting'," the fearless therapist noted. "Good one."

Pam only gave a huff as she began to pout.

That was about as far the two got in the session, but the novice doctor hoped that she had at least broken the ice. Apart from Ms. Isley, she was still on freshman probation. It had taken a good deal of begging to get an appointment with _someone_. Not that she was disappointed with Ivy, but the woman was positively lucid compared to the rest of the lot.

However, in the past days of gassing and temporary kidnapping, there was one patient that posed no trouble at all, which was completely unlike him. The Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime, remained patiently in his cage, usually sitting cross-legged on his cot, his eyes wide and watching. Never once did his smile fade from his bright clown lips.

She could feel his jaundiced eyes on her when she walked to and fro from departments and offices, or when she sat with the doctors during lunch. A few times, she caught his glance, expecting some sort of reaction of shock or embarrassment, but his grin only grew and she was the one to be flustered.

He was difficult to peg, that one. Sometimes he was the life of the party, cracking jokes that made even Two-Face bark a laugh. Then, other times he would sit completely alone, and it was obvious that whoever intruded on his solitude would have his nose ripped from his face. Apparently that had actually happened once.

Thinking about him gave Harley a mix of paralyzing unease and unbearable curiosity.

Days began to slip by unnoticed. They were filled with endless mounds of paperwork and coffee-getting. It appeared she was a glorified intern, and not a qualified psychiatrist. At least not to the presiding authority. The Poison Ivy appointments remained, thankfully, but they were usually unfulfilling. Trust and Rome were not built in a day, after all, and it was impossible to get more than a few sentences out of Ivy.

Dr. Leland was probably Harley's closest friend, but she was so busy with running the entire place that Harley usually ate in silence as her peers conversed around her. Today she finished her spaghetti and meatballs first, per usual, and went to place the tray on the rack. Despite the gloom of the place, the kitchen was topnotch.

Adorned with her usual lab coat, her hair was pulled into a sloppy yet secure bun (because who would be stupid enough to wear their hair down in this place?) and her favorite sapphire blouse just barely protruded from beneath.

This was usually the worst time of day, for doctors were required to eat with their patients so as to provide a "calming presence." But it appeared to her that not even a tranquilizer could do that job. Guards were of course in full force, but arguments were as frequent and spontaneous as lightning bolts in a storm. One could just yell out "Batman!" and the whole assembly would swarm and rave.

The staff sat in a separate room, while the inmates were enclosed in a cafeteria-style area with the mundane, long, plastic tables and equally trite chairs.

 _Just like high school…_ she thought sarcastically. _Except for jocks and nerds, you got schizophrenics and narcissists._

Smirking at her own joke, she sauntered quietly out the open door, leaving the sane world, and into the white noise of mummers coming from the prisoners.

She tried to skirt as close to the officers that lined the walls as possible, but the row she usually walked in front of was nowhere to be seen. Panic swelled in her. The dirty-dish rack was all the way across the room, an endless wasteland. If she kept her usual route, she would walk past the Riddler, Penguin, and Scarecrow, the intellectual clique. Undoubtedly they would whisper insults, but it wouldn't be so bad.

What frazzled her today was that they had been joined by one other: The Joker.

She calculated other passages. There were the multi-personalities like Two-Face and Ventriloquist, who undoubtedly would hoot, holler, and get the whole place riled. So that was a no.

Then there were (for lack of better, more professional word) creeps: Mad-hatter and Firefly, who sat suspiciously near the "girl's table" of Poison Ivy and the Cheetah gang.

Maybe they wouldn't notice, or maybe they would form an unhealthy obsession when she walked by—the risk was too great. Narcissists were annoying, but they never really cared about anything happening outside their own world. And there was _no_ way she was walking past Killer Croc's group.

Sighing, she gave a hard look at the back of Joker's head. He seemed to be involved in an intense conversation, but without his smile to look at it was hard to tell. Almost on cue, the entire table erupted in restrained laughter, chuckling like they were in on some big secret.

She rolled her eyes, but trotted their way anyhow.

Walking like one of these sociopaths was hot on her heels with a knife, she practically sprinted across the room. She may have gotten used to their exploits, but that didn't mean she wanted to encourage any of it.

This turned out to be a m _assive_ mistake. Although she was trying to be somewhat discrete, Ventriloquist caught a whiff from across the room.

"BABY-DOLL!" he yelled, his New York accent think. "Why don't you bring your fine ass over here?!"

At his abrupt comment two things happened simultaneously:

The room went dead silent, and all heads shifted around to get a glance at her.

She tripped and dropped her tray, letting out a squeak.

Luckily, she managed to catch herself and not splatter her coat with tomato sauce. No so luckily, the entire place went up in a roar of deranged laughter. Face burning, she wasn't sure whether to wait it out, or run away like a brace-faced freshman.

Knock-kneed, she went to pick up her tray and continue her walk, preserving an ounce of dignity. But when she reached for it, someone beat her to the punch.

Specifically, a white-washed, chemically colored madman. Perplexed, she stood as still as she could, as if around a man-eating tiger. The laughter faded once more into a tense, curious atmosphere. Even the sophists cocked an intrigued brow.

"Juvenile comedy like that is why I got into this business!" he remarked with a chuckle as he chivalrously handed her the muddied tray.

Even more speechless, she simply nodded appreciatively for his help.

"But it's so _overdone_ , so _boring_ now! Don't you agree, Ms…?" he waggled his brows at her, creating odd, dark wrinkles in his bleached forehead.

 _He's smooth I'll give him that._

"Quinzel," she replied shortly, trying to look over his shoulder at the entrance to the kitchen.

"QUIN-ZEL!" he shrieked in a Ricky Ricardo fashion. "Now _that's_ a name! Unique! Original! Not like those other ones…"

His voice trailed into dark undertones, sending a shiver up and down her spine.

"Well…um…yes…" she muttered, making a move to finally stash her dish, though she wondered why she should even bother now. "…but I really must be—"

"BUZZ OFF, CLOWN! Two-Face and me already got dibs!" the Scarface knock-off, wooden dummy challenged, causing a few apprehensive chuckles.

Joker's smile only widened, as it was wont to do, and without as much as a blink, without taking his eyes of her, he unfurled a hidden, highly forbidden, metal butter-knife and hurled it into the crowd.

It lodged itself into the dummy's skull with a thwack, right in the middle of the forehead. As soon as it did, the place erupted, forming sides and factions in split seconds. Ventriloquist could be heard swearing to high heaven while his bald keeper squealed in fear. A crowd made a beeline for where she stood. Joker didn't really make alliances, but there were those always looking for a fight, like Killer Croc and Warren White, who charged into the throng with shark-tooth grins.

Guards poured in, but Harley remained trapped by the Joker's intense stare. How did anyone converse, let alone try and cure, this guy?

"Well, my work is done," the Clown Prince chortled, pleased with himself. "Until we meet again, _Harleen_ Quinzel!"

Snatching her free hand in his, he raised it to his lips, which didn't seem to be able to close but somehow did, and planted an obnoxious kiss on the back of her knuckles. Then he gave an equally ostentatious wave and ran to join in on the fun before the guards could end it.

Shell-shocked, she could only stare as armed men rushed passed her. She dropped her tray again, her fingers too numb to hold on. After a few seconds, she heard a maddening yell:

"GET MY HEAD, DUMMY! MY HEAD!"

Joker was running around the room, evading officer and criminal alike with hoots and howls, Ventriloquist's wooden cranium held above his head like a trophy.

Eventually he tossed it playfully at a guard's masked face, and then was promptly tackled.

She hadn't noticed, but a smile had grown on her lips.

She giggled.


	2. Chapter 2

Stumbling back to her office, she couldn't stop looking at the bright red kiss mark on the back of her hand. Part of her was worried he had poisoned the lipstick with his trademark laughing toxin, and any moment she could break out into hysterics, dying with a grin.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and nothing.

 _I guess it was just a kiss then._

It almost seemed worse. First the wink and now this.

He didn't pay this much undue attention to the other doctors, why her?

"It's probably just some kind of hazing," she consoled herself. "He'll stop once he sees how boring I am."

Unexpectedly, that realization made her heart squeeze. Was she really so mundane? Surrounded by obscurity and glamour, something she always wished to know more of, it was no wonder she was drawn to these people. They were oddities of the first caliber, anyone would be intrigued by their crazed antics.

"Ugh this place is getting to my head..." she muttered as she pushed open the door to her cramped office.

Stacks and stacks of paper piled up around the desk, the entire room was filled wall-to-wall with forms and other medical papers. Pinching the bridge of her nose, the kiss vibrant in her peripheral vision, she felt even more overwhelmed by today. Sighing as she leaned against the door, she sank to the floor and closed her eyes.

But something sparkled, forcing her to wrench her eyelids open. Annoyed and curious, she spotted the source of the twinkle. It was a glass vase, small and slender, sitting unassumingly on her cluttered desk. A single rose sprouted out of it with a scrap of paper attached.

"Now what?" she groaned as she stood.

Walking towards it, she kept her eyes sharp, looking for anything sketchy. Just like the Joker's lipstick, it was just a vase.

Huffing, she snatched the thing up and read the note.

 _ **Come down and see me sometime.**_

 _ **\- J.**_

Flabbergasted, she took no time as she stomped right out the office door, slamming it as she went, the note in her fist.

For once people got out of her way, probably noticing the look of irritation on her face. Getting to the Joker's cell, she found him lying down, hands behind his head, smiling at the ceiling.

"Care to tell me how this got in my office?!" she exclaimed heatedly, holding up the crumpled card.

Without so much as a twitch of surprise, he only calmly shifted his attention to her.

"I put it there," he said unashamedly.

Going red in the face, she took several deep breaths and tried to mirror his cavalier attitude.

"Maybe I should inform the guards that you've been out of your cell."

At this he barked a laugh and jumped nimbly onto the floor.

"If it really bothered you that much, then you would have already reported me," he explained confidently, approaching the glass.

"I still could," she retorted with a cold glare.

Putting a spider-like hand to his chin, he appeared to consider it, screwing up his face comically. Then, he shrugged.

"Unlikely."

A fluster of butterflies and heat spread throughout her body. She took another inhale, ready to chew him out. Then, suddenly, he jumped full bore into the glass, palms and face against it.

Startled, she leapt back, letting out her usual squeak as she did so, which only made her more angry at herself.

"Y'know, I like what I hear about you, toots!" he squealed with manic glee, breaking the semi-serious conversation. "Especially that _name_! Har-leen Quin-zel!" he said slowly, and then licked his lips.

Her tongue wouldn't form words as he began to ponder again, furrowing his bleached brow until it finally hit him.

"If you trim the hedges a bit you get Harley Quinn!" his eyes sparkled as his smile grew ever wider, which seemed impossible.

"Yes, I've heard it before," she snapped, voice filled with hurt. "Someone beat you to that punch line."

Mouth pulling down at the corners, he seemed disappointed. Then, his beam reemerged, and he giggled happily.

"I just can't stay mad when I think about it!" he sniggered. "It brings a _smile_ to my face!"

"What doesn't?" she muttered, too quiet for him to hear. Or so she thought.

"Hoo-hoo!" he cackled as he folded over, hands wrapped around his stomach, shoulders vibrating with unrestrained laughter.

Startled once more, it was aggravating that she couldn't find a rhyme or reason to his antics. It was so random and spontaneous. Not sure what to do with herself whenever he pulled one of his escapades, she only stared and waited.

"I knew I liked you!" he finally said, wiping a tear from his eye and running a hand through his green hair. "Finally, a doc with a sense of humor! YOU HEAR THAT YOU MISERABLE PARASITES?!" he roared upwards, his maddening eyes blazed with genuine, unmatched anger.

"Ah, shut up, Clown," came the faint reply from one of the inmates.

"Miserable lowlife I outta rip his lungs out from his throat and make a whoopee-cushion out of it..." Joker muttered darkly, smile gone.

But as always it returned and with it, he turned his attention to the perplexed doctor still standing in front of him, separated by the glass.

"Anyhoo!" he shrilled impishly. "When's our first session, sweets?"

"What?" she whispered, eyes wide.

"Well, isn't that just bureaucracy for you!" he said, wheezing a laugh. "They didn't even _tell_ you, their own bureaucrat! I guess that's just what this country's comin' to...ah, well... _c'est la vie_!"

"Wait, what are you talking about?!" her voice quivered.

Pleased that he was in on the joke, he let her stew.

"Why, Dr. Quinzel, I'd thought you knew!" he said with indignation. "Starting _immediately,_ you are to be my new shrink! Oh, happy day, isn't it?!"

She dropped his card.

"Who authorized this?"

"Me, of course!" he chuckled. "I just explained calmly and _rationally_ that there wasn't anyone here I could relate to, so it was time for a change! And what better to switch it up then with the new girl?!"

This was the moment she couldn't take it any longer and walked away, a thousand bees buzzing in her head. It might have been what she wanted at first, but not _him_!

"See you soon!"

His throaty, squeaky voice echoed madly off the walls.


	3. Chapter 3

Harley stormed into Leland's office.

"What do you think you're doing?!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air.

Putting the phone down calmly, the leading psychiatrist gazed coolly back at the young, angry woman. She had expected this.

"Please, Dr. Quinzel, sit down."

In a huff, she did with arms and legs crossed.

"Harley," she muttered under her breath, glaring at her mentor.

Leland sighed and leaned wearily back, fingers forming a bridge.

"You might as well get it off your chest," she challenged, staring past the girl and looking at the florescent ceiling.

Harley did not disappoint.

"Where do I begin?" she snapped, trying to keep her pitch from a shriek, her East Coast accent coming through. "First, you don't even _tell_ me about the job! At least show me some proper courtesy so that I don't have to find about appointments _from_ my patients! I'm having a rough enough time as it is trying to remain professional around them, and now I have to worry about _him_ making an even worse fool out of me!"

The embarrassment and resentment that had been building over the past weeks broke through. Leland only waited, showing no signs of response—a true therapist.

"And where were you today?!" she added heatedly. "I was being left to dry and you did _nothing_!"

When Harley had her fill, breathing heavily and on the edge of her seat, Leland cocked a brow.

"Done?" she asked, as if bored.

Harley nodded just as icily, her blue eyes frozen.

Nodding, the weathered doctor stood, walking toward the windows.

It was a cloudy day, but humid. The fans were on, but they didn't help the stuffy atmosphere. Harley would have killed for a taste of fresh air, and hungrily wondered if Leland would crack a window.

She didn't.

Instead, she spoke quickly and softly, not looking at her new peer as her studied the pregnant sky.

"Dr. Quinzel," she started pointedly. "As I told you day one, Arkham is not a fun place to work. It is not like other asylums. Your previous experience will not help you here, and our objective is not to cure our patients. Sure, we try to rehabilitate them, but it rarely works. In fact, every patient I have presided over that has claimed to be 'cured' has regressed...violently...usually within twenty-four hours of release."

This was all common sense, but hearing Leland speak so honestly, so defeated, was uncomfortable to listen to.

"Our mission is a realistic one," she continued, hands behind her back. "We just try to keep their cells warm, try to keep them contained and happy. A success here is not rehabilitation, but the opposite—if they don't leave, then they can't kill anyone out there."

Her idealism was slowly being eroded by the truth of the matter. Coming in, Harley believed she could truly reach someone here, even if it was just one person.

Leland turned swiftly around, a detached anger etched on her chocolate features.

"So don't lecture me on courtesy, Dr. Quinzel," she hissed. "You will receive none here. If this place is too much, too hard, too unbearable for you, the answer is clear: Leave. No one is forcing you to work here. I'm sure you could still get your job back at St. Timothy's. Or, you could get over yourself and realize that if you keep that _monster_ placated, he might not escape and kill a child tomorrow."

With that she strode back to her chair, sat, and began doing paperwork.

Astonished by the change in her supervisor, Harley felt her stubbornness explode. Without another word, she walked out the door, fists clenched at her sides. As she stomped down the familiar, suffocating halls, she glared at anyone who glanced her way.

 _I'll show her! I'll show them all!_ she howled in her head, psychologically beating her chest.

Muttering angrily to herself, she slammed her office door shut and snatched a notebook. She began furiously writing, planning, scheming. Pressing so hard on the paper, she was ripping sheets out by the handful when the pen punched through. The challenge was sounded, and she would not back down from it. This had been her dream and though Leland didn't seem to believe in her, she would prove the old bat dead wrong.

 _By this time next year I'll have done what no one else has been able to do—rehabilitate the Joker._


End file.
